Her Voice
by a starr in photo
Summary: Honestly, he didn't deserve it, not after how he treated her. But still, there she was, more than willing to help. And how could he say no? Light Prentiss/Reid, could be read as friendship only.


For profilers they were quite unobservant, Reid couldn't help but think as he glanced down at his scarred forearm. Sure they all had realized that he had had a problem after the Henkle case, but nobody had bothered to look into it far enough to realize that he needed help. Well, nobody except for Emily. She hadn't known him that well, and maybe that was why she was able to see the utter dissolution in his eyes. He had been falling apart, and the rest of the team had been so concerned with their own views of him that they hadn't noticed. They wanted him to be okay, nobody wanted to admit that the brilliant Spencer Reid was an addict, but in the end, ignoring it didn't make it go away.

They still all assumed that he had quit on his own. And personally, Reid was perfectly content letting them think that, it was comforting for them in a way, to believe that their Reid had overcome the impossible. But thinking back to one particular night, Reid knew he couldn't have done it alone.

"OPEN THE DOOR, REID," Emily shouted, banging on the door to Reid's tiny Cape Cod cottage. His old rusty Volvo was parked in the driveway, and she could see an outline of a lanky figure sitting on a couch through the curtains. "I know you're in there, I know how to kick down doors, don't make me," she threatened, unwilling to let it go. After Reid had snapped at her at the homeless shelter, she knew she needed to do something. If nobody else on the team would, she'd take matters into her own hands.

The door creaked open, "what do you want Emily?" Reid nearly growled, and Emily was a bit taken aback by the tone, not expecting anything of the sort from the gangly doctor. She frowned, glancing him over. His hand unconsciously twitched, as if wishing to scratch at his forearm.

"Reid, you know why I'm here, so just let me in, I don't care if I've only known you a few months, this isn't okay." She pushed her way into the door, and sat down on Reid's couch, a plush, well worn dark leather sofa. Emily couldn't help but glance around, the place looked and smelled distinctly Spencer, it was cluttered, but clearly held together by cohesive order. She noted the stack of books sitting on the end table, far more worn than any on the shelved that covered three out of four walls in the room.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Emily," Reid sniffed, unwilling to relent on the issue. In truth he knew exactly what she was referencing, but he refused to admit that anybody knew about the problem he was having.

"Reid, you're a genius, I'm sure you can figure it out. Its not your fault you know. You're not weak because you couldn't fight it off alone. He did it to you, you didn't do it to yourself," she commented quietly, hesitant, not wanting to set him off again.

Spencer remained silent though, and sat down in the matching leather arm chair. He knew she was technically right, he hadn't started the cycle, he didn't want the dilaudid at first, but eventually, he couldn't fight off the urge. But getting help meant admitting that there was a problem in the first place, and he couldn't do that.

"Spencer, you don't have to say it, you don't have to admit there's a problem, but I'm going to help you. You're calling in sick for the next week, I'm conveniently using up vacation time. This week, you're not going to be alone," Emily explained further, waiting for conformation. Reid didn't say anything, but instead got up, and he walked out of the room.

Emily frowned, unsure of what to do, so she waited, and presently, he returned, and in an outstretched hand, he held four vials of dilaudid, and several needles. A small smile graced Emily's face. He hadn't said it out loud, but he was accepting her help, so she took the vials and the needles and tucked them carefully away in her purse to dispose of later.

"Are there any more, or am I going to be able to trust you to go to the bathroom alone?" Emily asked. Her voice wasn't condescending, or accusing, just curious and for that Spencer was thankful. Clearing his throat, he responded.

"That's all of them, I promise," he blinked a few times, biting back tears. Emily just nodded in understanding, and patted the cushion next to her.

"There's a three day hump. The first day will be bad, the second will be worse, and the third will be the worst, but after that? After that it will get better," she didn't say it aloud, but Spencer could tell she was speaking from experience, and because of that, he relaxed slightly and sat down. "I brought this, you speak Italian, right? You mentioned reading the Divine Comedy in original text..." Emily trailed off, showing him the book, The Garden of the Finzi-Continis in the original Italian version. "I know you can finish a book in six minutes, so why don't I read it to you instead," she offered, figuring that they could draw it out for several hours to get his mind off of the dilaudid.

"That sounds great," Spencer managed a small smile, tucking himself into the corner of the couch. He enjoyed reading, but honestly, he found it more enjoyable to listen to people read, something he had probably developed because of his mother reading to him when he was little.

Emily grinned widely, more than thrilled that Spencer seemed to be going along with it, and even more so that he agreed to her suggestion. She flipped the book open, and in soothing Italian, began to read to him.

Emily had been right of course, Spencer thought, the third day had been the worst. The first twenty four hours had only consisted of restlessness, and a runny nose and watery eyes. And she had sat next to him during the second day, wiping a cold wash cloth across his forehead to help with the sweating, and he tried not to snap at her, but she knew the irritability was just a part of the process, and didn't let it phase her. She had pulled back his hair as he rushed to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet, and had rubbed his back gently, nursing away the excruciating backache he had. They had stayed up the whole night as she read to him, books he had selected of the shelves, though they were already committed to memory and she had brought him water, holding it up for him when he found he couldn't hold the glass because he was shaking so violently.

Spencer wasn't sure what he had done to deserve such care from the woman he had been so nasty to, but she had been right, and after seventy two hours, it started to get better. She stayed though, like she said she would for another few days.

By the sixth day, Emily had decided that he was out of the woods, and had packed up her bag, leaving the Italian novel for him to keep and she had left. But he had seen her the next morning, at work in the bull pen. Neither mentioned the previous week to each other, and nobody on the team found it suspicious that they had come back on the same day. It was like it had never happened, it was like Reid had never had a problem. And everybody was happy.

And two months later when he rang Emily's doorbell, he didn't feel weird. He had a book tucked under his arm, it was new, one he hadn't read yet. She opened the door, a knowing look on her face. She ushered him into her apartment and sat him down on the couch. Wordlessly she fixed him a cup of coffee, four teaspoons of sugar though he always insisted he only put two in, which was a lie. She sat down next to him and pulled his head into her lap, taking the book from his hands. She flipped to the first page and began to read.

It wasn't the first time he had gone to her when he had the urge to shoot up, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last, but it was a good distraction, and as he listened to her soothing voice, he committed it to memory, because it was what had gotten him through.


End file.
